Fabrice Muamba: I'm Still Standing Page 12

  #####

  The ambulance begins to beep and slow down as it reverses into place. I’ve arrived at the London Chest Hospital.

  “We need to disconnect everything slowly and properly,” Peter says. It was pointless rushing me onto the ambulance and it’s just as pointless now rushing me off.

  The defibrillator is taken off the wall and the drip in my groin is carefully removed from the ambulance ceiling by Dr Deaner as Anthony and Dr Tobin continue to perform CPR while Peter keeps the oxygen coming. The back doors fly open and Zoe Astrolakis, the registrar working at the time, looks up and sees Dr Deaner. The two know each other well.

  “Are you alright?” she says. “Do you need a hug?” Just because these people do this every day doesn’t mean they’re robots.

  Dr Deaner went to a football match to catch up with his brothers and watch his team win. Now he’s in an ambulance trying to save my life. Who can blame Zoe for worrying about him? For all he knows his bike is still attached to the railings outside White Hart Lane, although he hopes Dr Hogan has managed to get a message to his brothers to shift it.

  Up until now I’ve been in Peter, Dr Tobin and Anthony’s world.

  Now I move into Dr Deaner’s.

  I’m lifted off the ambulance trolley and onto a hospital bed. In that split-second the baton is passed on. My fate now rests in the hands of those inside.

  I fly up a ramp straight down a corridor 15 metres long, I turn right into the cath lab area before taking another left into the lab itself.

  Peter is still the main man when it comes to oxygen and he talks with an anaesthetist about my airway before handing over. His night’s work is done.

  He walks off to a viewing area with Barbara, Paul and Anthony to watch others doing what he’s been doing.

  Trying to save my life.

  #11

  On The Brink

  SHAUNA looks out of the window of the train as Suki does what all good mates do.

  “Let’s stay positive,” she says. “We don’t know what is happening. He’ll be ok.”

  Dean Brooke rings back. “Where should we head to?” Shauna asks. Dean isn’t sure. The North Middlesex seems like the closest hospital but he’s heard that I’m heading elsewhere.

  Shauna looks out of the window again and begins to pray. ‘Just be alive’, she says to herself. ‘I don’t care what state he’s in. If he’s alive then we’ve got something to work with.’

  Dr Tobin decides to stay in the cath lab itself, standing well back and out of the way. He’s still got his studs on as well as his official matchday kit. He has grassy knees and muddy boots. He is guided to a seat in the corner and begins to watch and all he can think is ‘I’m going to get thrown out for the state of my clothes.’

  The cath lab is rammed full of x-ray equipment, ultrasound, nurses, anaesthetists, electrophysiologists and experts of all shapes and sizes. The NHS is throwing the best they’ve got at me.

  I hope I can repay them.

  Dr Deaner races off to put some theatre blues on, comes back and immediately gets to work.

  “Let’s get a better line in,” is his first call and a sub-clavian line is inserted under my left collarbone. This immediately improves my chances of coming back. The bigger and better the line inserted, the quicker they can get drugs into me.

  An auto-pulse is placed over my chest, sitting snugly against me, and someone flicks the switch. Manual CPR is knackering and I’ve had it for almost 50 minutes. It’s time to let the machine take the strain when it comes to compressing my chest. Nothing can beat your own heart and lungs but mine are nowhere to be seen right now. The auto-pulse plus the oxygen I’m receiving are doing their best to con my body into thinking I’m ok. But my body isn’t stupid.

  All these guys are doing is buying me time. And they’re running out of money.

  Dr Tobin walks outside and the scale of what’s happening hits him. I’m his mate and I’m dying in front of him.

  He stands against a wall in the corridor and begins to cry, sliding down the wall until he sits on the cold floor. This is all too much.

  #####

  In 2010-11 we got off to a great start and I expected big things from us. Owen had repaired a lot of damage and kept us up comfortably the year before. A decent away win early on against West Ham United gave us all a boost. I was playing well, developing nicely and enjoying it. The players seemed to click and we were all buzzing. We wanted to do far better than the season before. We knew we could defend, we played without fear and felt we had some strength in depth.

  We achieved some good results during the course of the campaign, drawing with Manchester United and beating my old team Arsenal but in the end we could only finish 14th again, which was a real shame.

  We did manage to get to the FA Cup semi-final, but ended up losing 5-0 to Stoke on a disastrous day. Our form tailed off and although we lost our remaining five games in a drab finish to the season, I was still relatively happy at the Reebok.

  In the summer of 2011, I decided to work harder than ever to get myself in shape for the season ahead. I was in New York three weeks before pre-season started but rather than taking in the sights and the sounds I spent most of the time with a personal trainer, pushing myself.

  When I came back from America I was by far and away in the best condition ever. That gave me a massive mental boost. Football is a very competitive game and you want to always be the best you can. Always. I knew that when I went into pre-season I wanted to feel ready. Weights, cardio, interval training – I did it all and gave it my all. Nothing else was good enough.

  When it comes to physical fitness, a lot of players now spend their summers trying to get in condition before pre-season is even on the horizon. Some only give themselves a week’s headstart but a lot of others like to be dedicated all year round. That’s just the way the game has developed. You have to be in peak condition to play in the Premier League or you will be found out quickly and you don’t get there without sacrificing certain things. If you have a day off from training and spend it drinking beer there is always someone somewhere working hard in the gym, sipping water. And when you come back after your holidays, you have to make sure you’re not off the pace. It’s about giving off a good vibe to the manager and I felt I had done that.

  That great pre-season reaped instant rewards as I scored against QPR in the opening match. I was really excited about our chances of doing well in the season ahead.

  #####

  Owen gets out of the police car and presses the green button on his Nokia 9210. The phone is ancient but it’s got so many numbers on it he doesn’t want to replace it. He normally has it on silent but as the hospital looms into sight he turns up the volume in case someone wants to get in touch about Fabrice.

  A minute later it rings. “Owen, it’s Kenny,” says a voice at the other end. It’s Kenny Dalglish, the Liverpool manager. They have a game against Stoke City in one of the other FA Cup quarter-finals tomorrow. “I’ll say this quickly; we’re all thinking about Fabrice and the club. Can you please pass on our best. If you need anything at all let me know.”

  By the end of the day almost every club in the country has got in touch to offer whatever help Bolton need.

  Players, too, across the country are taking to their mobiles to show their support. Justin Hoyte tweets: ‘He has been there for me since we was little and I cannot imagine life without such a great guy! Love him to bits’ and Johan Djourou taps: ‘Love you so much man! Keep fighting. Everybody please pray for him he’s an amazing man and friend’. Stuart Holden, my Bolton team-mate, also writes a message. ‘Praying for you Fab. Hope he’s OK. Thoughts with him and his family. For all those asking, I know as much as you do. Waiting anxiously for updates from team-mates. Fab is a fighter!’

  It’s not just my close mates that are rallying around. Others use Twitter to show their concern...

  Frank Lampard: ‘We are all Wanderers tonight.’

  Kyle Walker: ‘Doesn’t matter w
ho you support. Doesn’t matter if you aren’t a football fan. Doesn’t matter if you aren’t religious. Pray for Fabrice Muamba.’

  Rio Ferdinand: ‘Come on Fabrice Muamba, praying for you.’

  Rafael van der Vaart: ‘Terrible what happened with Muamba during the game. We’re all praying for him.’

  Jack Wilshere: ‘Hope Muamba is okay! Thoughts with him.’

  David Gold: ‘Fabrice Muamba is one of the nicest and most respectful young men I ever met in football. I’m thinking of you Fab, get well soon.’

  Wayne Rooney: ‘Hope Fabrice Muamba is OK. Praying for him and his family. Still in shock.’

  Robin van Persie: ‘I’m so sad about what happened to Fabrice Muamba today. Played with him for a couple of years. What a great guy. Always a smile on his face. Please Fabrice bring that smile back. My thoughts are with you and your lovely family!’

  There are many more, too many to mention. Fans from clubs across the country are also posting messages on websites wishing me well as I fight for my life.

  Owen and Kevin see Dr Tobin straight away and he fills them in on the situation. Dr Tobin is shaken and thinks Owen and Kevin are in shock. They look at him and think the same. It’s looking really bad.

  Owen asks about Shauna, finds a side room and rings her on the train. “Just tell me he’s alive,” she says. “Just please tell me he’s still alive.”

  #####

  Despite my positive start, my early season optimism didn’t last. I started to fall out of favour. We had a lot of midfielders all competing for a place. There was Mark Davies, Darren Pratley, Stuart Holden, Nigel Reo Coker and me all trying to get starting positions. I was in for a week, then out for a week and I started to feel frustrated. I only played five out of our opening 10 matches and felt like I couldn’t build up any consistency.

  On the Friday, we used to run through the starting XI team shape and if I wasn’t involved, it used to drive me mad. Those not picked for the next day’s game would break off and work with assistant manager Sandy Stewart. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make me feel any better.

  “I know you’re all disappointed,” he would say as we shuffled across to where the reserves trained, “but let’s work hard for the team.” In my head I would think ‘why are you taking me for an idiot? If you don’t want me here just say so.’

  I would go in to Owen to try and find out why I wasn’t getting picked. He would say: “I want to play someone else in front of you, you’re not performing to your best.” When you hear that once you go away, accept it and come back stronger. But nothing changed and when I went back I got the same message. I would walk away thinking ‘he is talking rubbish’. You wonder what else you can do to get back into the team.

  I’d go to training and work hard but deep inside I knew I’d be left out again. It made me so moody. I used to drive home thinking ‘why aren’t I getting picked? What is this guy playing at?’ It was on my mind 24 hours a day. I would go through the front door and get mad, shouting at Shauna and just not being in a good place. I wanted to prove myself and I wasn’t getting the chance to do that. By the time February came around – just six weeks before my collapse – I decided it was time to go.

  “Let’s get out of here man,” I said one day as Warwick sat on the couch in my living room. “It’s time to do something different. I can’t take what is happening to me anymore.” He knew I wasn’t happy and he sat there, sipping his coffee, trying to counsel me through. “Have a look about for me,” I said. “If any clubs are interested then let’s get moving forward.”

  I was used to playing week in and week out and those days looked numbered. I spoke to Shauna in the kitchen about an exit plan. I was really down and told her I was tired of not playing. The evidence was there that I should be in the team. The stats seemed to show that when I played we won. I might not be the best player on the pitch but I never stopped trying and what I did for the team was good work. The manager just didn’t fancy me at the time and I had to make up my mind about what I wanted to do. I needed to play so badly but it wasn’t happening.

  The only player I told was Martin Petrov. We were in the dressing room at Euxton one day and I just unloaded the burden. “Martin, I need to get out, I’m getting no game time,” I said. “Hang on in there, I know you’re young and want to play but your time will come,” he responded. His words didn’t help much because I was just so frustrated.

  Owen had his own opinions. Being a manager is not an easy job – I accept that and it is nothing personal. I just wanted to play football and you can’t keep everyone happy, in football and in life. From 35 games a season to a lot less than that is just not something I could handle. I seemed to get the same excuses and it wasn’t good enough for me.

  People may think I’m being disrespectful and ungrateful to Bolton by outlining my plans to get out of the club despite what they later did for me following my collapse. But I can’t help that and I can’t lie and pretend that before the cardiac arrest I was all happy and everything was great. Trust me, it wasn’t.

  Bolton did so much for me after my cardiac arrest and I’m so grateful to the club. So many people have gone above and beyond to help me recover – including Owen. But the truth of the matter is that, for footballing reasons, I was on my way out. I’m a passionate man and it was hurting me not being involved.

  Bolton’s fans should know that I loved playing for them and that it wasn’t anything else other than sheer frustration that was driving me away. I didn’t want more money. I just wanted the shirt or if not the shirt then at least a decent excuse for why I didn’t have it. I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I wasn’t getting any of that.

  When I stepped out on that White Hart Lane pitch on that March evening, there were a lot of feelings swirling around in my head. I knew that I had a big point to prove. Perhaps I had one last chance to show the boss that I could be a part of his plans at this club I loved. But there was also a part of me that feared it was all too late.

  #####

  As Dr Mohiddin arrives on the scene the cath lab is full of slick chaos. Different experts, different specialists, different heroes all working separately but together at the same time.

  “We need an echo,” Dr Deaner states, asking for an ultrasound of my heart to see what that will show up. I’m being given more amiodarone and also bicarbonate because my blood has become too acidic and that needs to be reversed.

  The echo, short for echocardiogram, shows that there’s no build-up of fluid around my heart so that problem is ruled out. Those in the cath lab want to tick off, one by one, the problems that could be causing this situation. It’s about keeping cool under pressure and working swiftly to rule out one thing after another.

  For the third time in less than an hour Dr Deaner hovers over me, ready to prod me with more wires. He wants to inject a contrast dye into my heart to take a picture and see if he and his team can spot whether my arteries are blocked.

  He holds onto the side of the trolley as he steadies himself, hitting the perfect spot in my groin, accessing my femoral artery first time. He could probably do this in his sleep these days. He knows he’s in the artery because blood spurts out and catches his theatre blues as well as dribbling onto my thigh.

  He takes his time, inching a small catheter all the way up to my heart before injecting the dye. In no time at all he gets confirmation of what he thought. There’s no blockage. My left and right coronary arteries look as healthy as can be. As I lie in the middle of the room, the only still object in a space full of people, Dr Deaner approaches Dr Tobin and lays it on the line. It’s two professionals looking at my situation clinically. “If things don’t start to change soon we’re getting to the point where it’s pointless continuing,” Dr Deaner says. Dr Tobin can’t disagree.

  My odds of now coming back are not even one per cent. I’m circling the drain. There’s nothing left.

  Or maybe not...

  All of a sudden my heart rhythm changes and the wild ele
ctrical activity that has put me in this mess in the first place begins to settle down, to become more organised. My actual heart output is pathetically small but my heart is showing signs that it wants to behave. A glimmer of hope has appeared. For the first time in over an hour my heart begins doing what it is asked to do.

  “Give me a pacing wire,” Dr Deaner says, going back through the catheter in my groin, inching a temporary pacemaker all the way up to my heart, setting it in place at 90 beats a minute to help produce better electrical activity.

  My heart responds by slowly, finally, starting to push some blood around my body. HOPE. HOPE. HOPE.

  78 minutes after dying, I’m back.

  I’M BACK. I’m really, actually back.

  #12

  No-Man’s Land

  THE atmosphere in the cath lab shifts. Nobody can really believe that my heart has decided to click back into place.

  “Let’s try calcium chloride,” Dr Deaner says, hoping that one final dose of hardcore drugs might help strengthen my heartbeat. My heart responds instantly, wondering what all the fuss has been about. Dr Deaner looks around at his colleagues, at all the people who have saved me, smiles and takes a moment for himself. He can’t remember the last time a patient has been gone for so long before coming back. The room is euphoric but that only lasts a split-second as the focus shifts from my heart to the rest of me.

  There’s still no way I’m gonna pull through. There’s still no way I can walk out of the London Chest Hospital.

  If I make it through the night then I’m doing well. I’m still as good as dead. My brain hasn’t functioned for almost 90 minutes. Almost a full football match. My heart might be beating again but what’s the point if my brain has been starved of oxygen for so long?

  Dr Deaner approaches the gaffer and dad, who has just arrived along with my brother, Daniel, and Mr Gartside.